Chapter 16

Baldock

Saturday, 15th August, 1812

The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon, which was shifting from pink to blue, as the carriage turned back onto the Main North Road. The travelers had risen early and eaten in haste, hopeful of journeying farther today than the day previous.

Elizabeth, looking out of the window, was impressed by the sight of elegant houses rising in the distance to the east. The sights were then swallowed up by the wide Main Street of the town, which was, even at this early hour, a hive of activity with merchants and servants scuttling here and there, with carriages rolling along, each with two or four horses attached to it. Elizabeth could not help the sigh of pleasure at the view; as much as she regretted her family's current circumstances, she had always enjoyed traveling and had never before taken the Great North Road toward Scotland.

"How far do you think we will travel today, Mr. Darcy?" Captain Scofield asked courteously. With only two gentlemen now vying for Lydia's hand, it had been decided that he would travel with Lydia, Mrs. Greenfield, Elizabeth, and Darcy this morning, and after a late luncheon, Sir Christopher would take his place.

"If the weather holds, and all looks well at the moment, I hope we will reach Huntington. I have sent a servant ahead to prepare rooms at The George."

"Where Charles I stayed," Elizabeth remarked.

Darcy nodded and said, "It is peculiar and sad to consider Englishman fighting against Englishman those many years ago."

"Why do you think that Oliver Cromwell's government fell?" Captain Scofield asked.

This provoked a wide-ranging conversation between Elizabeth, Darcy, and Scofield about the execution of Charles I, the brief creation and then fall of the Commonwealth, followed by the return of Charles II as King of England. Mrs. Greenfield made the occasional comment, showing that she had a reasonable knowledge of English history.

Lydia was completely silent during this discussion. On the one hand, that was not surprising as Lydia, though she enjoyed novels, was entirely disdainful of history books.

On the other, Lydia was rarely silent, and given that Captain Scofield was supposed to be courting her, well, it was surprising that she was not indignantly including herself in the conversation.

Elizabeth did not wish to stare at her youngest sister, but she did flick the occasional glance her way, and Lydia was looking genuinely serious. Could it be that their painful discussion the previous night had been helpful? Could it be that Lydia had finally realized how badly she had behaved in Brighton?

/

Pemberley

Saturday, 15th August, 1812

The silk of Caroline's morning dress rustled in the breeze, barely audible over the burble of water beneath her. A tiny eddy of dust whirled over the stone of the bridge and vanished into the path. Caroline stared down at her own face, which wavered in the trout stream slipping along, while the dim silhouettes of fish were just barely visible below the surface of the cool water. She looked very fetching, the ribbons of her hat fluttering like pennants out to the side and the curls around her face bobbing.

Caroline always looked fashionable and sophisticated. She spent a great deal of time and attention and money on ensuring it was so. She had excellent taste, she knew, with a real knack for matching colors and textures, and she did not stint herself in the execution of that inimitable taste. Her own income, though respectable, was invariably insufficient for her expenditures, but she did not let this inhibit her; Charles could ever be counted upon to pay any bills she might have left over. She had known since she was a young child – the last Bingley, still in the nursery, adored and pampered by her mamma – that she was destined to be the mistress of a great estate and a grand lady.

She had ordered her life accordingly. She had been attentive at school, working hard at her accomplishments and befriending every classmate who might be a useful connection later in life. She had continued her self-improvement even after leaving finishing school. She had dressed as a great lady ought to dress. She had done everything that she could to show the haut ton that here, indeed, was a lady, as fine a catch as any gentleman could hope for.

And she had thought her efforts rewarded when her brother Charles introduced her to his good friend Mr. Darcy. In this tall, handsome, grave stranger, she had found her perfect man; intelligent, wealthy, refined, of high birth and noble connections and a very fine estate – an estate that brought in ten thousand pounds a year. They were perfectly matched – she, with her wit and her charm and her accomplishments and her knowledge, would be an exemplary hostess for the reserved, quiet Master of Pemberley. She would look in pride and satisfaction out over the grounds of Pemberley during their time in the country, and during the London Season, she would host an endless array of dazzling balls and parties and Venetian breakfasts.

It was a glorious plan, and one that Richard Fitzwilliam had unceremoniously damped. Caroline found it both insulting and absurd that any gentleman in Mr. Darcy's position would summarily dismiss her as a potential wife, and her indignation at the colonel ran hot. How dare he claim to know Darcy's mind regarding her?

Yet she had to admit to herself that the colonel might have a point. He and Darcy had been close since their youth, and remained in friendly comradeship. He was more likely than she to know what Darcy was thinking. She was well aware that she was quite a catch – beautiful, educated, clever, charming in company, and with more than respectable wealth of her own. But maybe she was not a catch for Darcy, specifically? It was, perhaps, true that they were not as compatible as she had first thought. He did not much enjoy the parties that so enraptured her, and she would find it deadly dull to be buried in the country all year round.

Had Darcy come to this realization sooner than Caroline herself? Certainly he had had ample opportunity, throughout the many years they had known one another, to propose to her. Could it be possible that he had no intention of doing so? Could it be possible that it was for the better?

Below her, a frog leapt into the water with a plop, disturbing her reflection, and she scowled at it, shifting her parasol to keep the sun off the back of her neck. One did so tire of the country, after a while.

"Georgiana?" a masculine voice purred from behind her.

Caroline spun around and glowered at the man who had emerged from the background, his approach missed because of the rushing, tumbling procession of the waters.

"Who are you?" Caroline demanded angrily, even as the gentleman took a step back, his expression now one of confusion. He was, Caroline observed, a remarkably handsome individual, of little more than medium height, with dark blond hair and blazing blue eyes, with perfect features and a very fine figure. He was clad in buckskin breeches and a white shirt, a gray coat, and a well-made hat.

"My heartfelt apologies," the man responded, and his countenance was so full of regret that Caroline's ire reduced, along with her heart rate. "I thought you were Georg … Miss Darcy."

Caroline relaxed yet more, and she found herself gazing with approval on the man's exceedingly good looking visage. "Are you a friend of Miss Darcy's, then?"

"I would not say a friend so much as an acquaintance," the gentleman replied, removing his hat and bowing. "My name is Mr. Peter Russell, and I am visiting after many years away in the army."

"And yet you refer to Miss Darcy by her Christian name?" Caroline said, raising one eyebrow.

Her companion had the grace to blush and said apologetically, "I should not have done so, of course. I knew Miss Darcy when she was but a child, you see. My family owns an estate some ten miles from here, and on occasion, I had the pleasure of playing games with her and my younger sisters when we visited. It has been many years, and I know Miss Darcy must be quite grown up, but I still remember her as a six-year-old. When she was young, she used to love this bridge, you see, and I expected to see her here, instead of a most beautiful, but entirely unknown, lady. "

"I see," Miss Bingley replied with a reassuring smile. "I am Miss Bingley, a friend of the Darcys. I believe Miss Darcy is fond of this bridge, but she is presently playing the pianoforte. I daresay she will soon be available for a morning call."

"Excellent," Mr. Russell said, and bowed again and held out his arm. "Would you care to accompany me to Pemberley?"

Caroline took the offered arm with a gracious nod. Really, this man was incredibly charming. He guided her off the bridge and onto the path which led to toward Pemberley, though a tall row of hedges currently blocked all but the third level of the mansion from their position.

They had proceeded only thirty feet when Mr. Russell shifted to the right side of the lane to avoid a small hole and, to Caroline's astonishment and dismay, tripped, fell sideways, and rolled down to land in the water.

"Oh, Mr. Russell!" she exclaimed, taking a cautious step in the direction of the now sodden man. "Are you injured?"

"No, no!" the man responded, rising to his feet and clambering with difficulty up the small bank and onto the path. Caroline found herself holding back a smile at the sight of the formerly elegant man, now so very wet. She was relieved when Mr. Russell burst into laughter, which allowed her to express her amusement to him.

"I do look most absurd," the gentleman finally said, "and fear I must make my farewells to you and return home."

"I am certain that the servants at Pemberley could assist you…

"No, no," Russell responded with a rueful grin. "I will come again another day. For now, I wish to depart as quickly as possible to change into dry clothes. Until we meet again, Miss Bingley. And if you do not mind, perhaps you can keep my arrival a secret from Miss Darcy? I would like to surprise her."

Caroline curtsied and watched as Mr. Russell walked, dripping, toward the stone bridge, crossed it, and began marching along the path which led in the direction of Lambton.

It occurred to her, rather belatedly, to wonder where the gentleman had come from. Pemberley was enormous; had Mr. Russell hiked hours and hours to come here? It was more than a trifle odd.

/

Mary's Bedchamber

Longbourn

Midday

Mary's bedchamber was modest, even austere. Where Lydia's and Kitty's were filled with ribbons and bits of lace and necklaces and bracelets, and Elizabeth's was replete with books and dresses and walking shoes, and Jane's was soft with cushions and personal little knickknacks, Mary had one wall of books and no other decoration. A plain blue rug lay on the floor, simple and serviceable. Mary had made it herself, from a dress too tattered to be patched and mended any more. Even the quilt on her bed was a subdued patchwork of dusty earth-brown and bland gray-blue.

She had long resigned herself to being the plain Bennet daughter and had crafted her room to fit that. No asking for silks and jewels and ribbons and bonnets and such fripperies from her. She had her sermons, and her sheet music, and her workbasket. She had decided as a child of twelve that if she could not be pretty like her sisters, or gentle and lovely like Jane, or outgoing and lively like Elizabeth and Lydia, then she would be the most accomplished, and she had thrown herself into her self-appointed task.

She had succeeded. Of all the Bennet sisters, Mary was by far the most proficient on the pianoforte, in sewing, and in French. It did not actually matter. Their mother valued beauty and charm above all other virtues, and their father esteemed satirical, amusing intelligence. Mary's quickness was of the strictly academic and practical variety, and thus she slipped entirely through the cracks. Mrs. Bennet openly preferred Lydia and Jane above all her other daughters and tolerated Kitty, while her blatant disapproval of Elizabeth's cleverness was tempered by their father's obvious preference for his second daughter. Even Kitty was always to be found by Lydia's side. Mary alone was truly solitary, her gifts unappreciated.

She drifted across to her window and settled onto the thin brown cushion there to stare down at the yard below. A maid bustled towards the kitchen door, returning from some errand. Daisy, a mare from their small herd, stood patiently, chewing hay, while a stableboy checked her shoes. A tenant casually spoke to one of the Bennet manservants, and as she watched, he took off his hat to run his hand through his hair, laughing.

A stab of envy went through her. Certainly, as a daughter of the house, Mary's life was easier than that of maids and tenants' wives and daughters. Her hands were soft and her work easy. Yet she felt so purposeless, so unnecessary, so extraneous. Father had Elizabeth, and Elizabeth and Jane had each other, and Mother had Lydia, and Lydia had Kitty. Even with Lydia gone, Mrs. Bennet had turned to her eldest, insisting on Jane's nearly constant company, muttering and complaining about her youngest daughter's wedding away from Longbourn. Mary sighed.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Mary braced herself. It was likely either Kitty or her mother, and neither would be a comfort at this time.

"Come in," she called softly, and to her considerable relief, Jane entered the room, a frown gracing her lovely face.

"Mary, I apologize for disturbing you, but I wondered if I could ask you about something."

Mary was startled, but nodded. "Of course. Do sit down."

Jane did so, in a rustle of muslin, and for a short time the two were silent, Mary filled with bewilderment. Her eldest sister had always seemed so serene, so calm, but in this moment, she appeared genuinely distressed.

Jane finally shook herself and turned her gaze on Mary. "Again, I apologize for disturbing you, especially as you spend so many hours studying, but I find myself confused, and you are the person at Longbourn that I trust the most to give me sensible advice."

This was, of course, because Elizabeth was away, but Mary resolved to set such thoughts aside.

"How can I help?" she asked simply.

Jane sighed and said, "Mr. Bingley has made it plain that he wishes to court me, and indeed, marry me."

"Surely that is a good thing?"

Jane tightened her lips and said, "Mother would certainly think so, but…"

She rose at this juncture and began pacing up and down the woolen rug, her motions agitated, while Mary regarded her with concern.

"I am very angry," Jane finally said, turning to face her sister. "I am so very, very angry. Angry at Mr. Bingley for leaving, at Miss Bingley for pretending to be my friend and then betraying me, at Mother for her vulgarity, Father for his laziness, and Lydia for being a great fool. I have never felt such fury in all my life, and I am aware that it is wrong to feel this way. But somehow I cannot … I cannot recover what I had before, my placidity, my willingness, nay, my desire, to think the best of others. I truly am not confident what to do, Mary, except this, that I cannot marry Mr. Bingley under the current circumstances. It would be unfair to both of us. I hate feeling this way, but I do not know how to stop…"

She trailed off and, to Mary's shock, burst into tears. Mary leaped to her feet and hurried over to put an arm around her sister, and then she guided her to a seat near the cold fireplace.

For a few minutes, Jane merely sobbed while her sister held her, dimly aware that Miss Bennet had been forced to act as a pillar of strength ever since Lydia ran away and was doubtless exhausted and overcome.

Finally, Jane's shoulders stopped heaving, and she straightened her back once more and accepted the handkerchief from Mary's hand. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and leaned against her chair.

"I do not know how to stop being angry," she repeated softly.

Mary had been thinking hard during Jane's weeping fit, and she took a seat nearby and said, "I do not think you necessarily need to stop feeling angry. You have every reason to be upset with everyone you mentioned."

This provoked an amazed look from her sister, who frowned and shook her head. "But surely, the Word of God tells us that we should not be angry!"

"Jesus was," Mary remarked thoughtfully.

"When?"

"When he was clearing the temple court of the moneychangers and merchants."

Jane wrinkled her brow. "Our Lord's anger is not the same as my own, obviously."

"No," Mary agreed, "but the Bible does not say that people should never become angry. Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry. Slow to become angry. You are never angry – or at least not in a way that anyone can see. You have always been the peacemaker, the rock, the one who holds our family together. It is natural enough to be angry on occasion, especially when you are poorly treated."

Jane's pale face turned toward the window, and Mary saw tears form in her eyes, though they did not fall.

"Perhaps," she said quietly, "but I confess I still do not know what to do. I know that I am to forgive, but how?"

Mary hesitated, well aware that she did not have any idea what to do. She had always been the ignored sister, the forgotten sister, the middle sister. She had largely been alone for a long time, in spite of living in a busy household.

She sighed, and prayed for wisdom, and found her gaze fixing on the shadows beneath Jane's celestially blue eyes.

"Are you tired?" she asked gently.

The eldest Miss Bennet looked startled and then, after a moment of thought, nodded. "I am very tired. I have never felt so tired in my life."

"Then that is the place to start. You have been primarily shouldering the burden of the entire family since Lydia ran away, and I apologize for hiding with my books while you managed Mother. I will talk to Kitty, and we will help keep Mother company while you sleep and rest and read a novel or two."

"How will that help with my anger?"

Mary forced a slight smile and said, "I am not sure it will, but it is hard enough to think clearly, let alone make good decisions, when one is exhausted."

This, she knew at least, was sensible. She had gone through a season a few years previously when she had studied too long and had difficulty falling asleep afterwards.

Jane heaved out a breath and smiled. "Thank you, my dear sister. I do confess to being very fatigued."

"You are very welcome," Mary said, and she meant it. Of all her sisters, she was most fond of Jane, though even Jane did not have enough energy and time to be a good friend to her. Elizabeth was always kind, but she was such a vigorous person, dashing here and there...

Jane, to Mary's considerable surprise, removed her shoes and lay down on her bed. "Do you mind if I take a nap here?" she asked. "If I try to rest in my room, Mother will probably send a servant to haul me downstairs to talk about Mr. Bingley."

Mary wrinkled her nose in agreement and said, "I daresay she would, and yes, of course you can."